Which the world owes to work no poet sage
Has made the burden of his song as yet,
And the best epic of our life remains
Lodged in the grasp of unpoetic pains.
To feed and clothe our kind, to spread a roof
Between them and the sky, and bid the cold
Of winter keep without, have won small proof
Of honour and esteem from those of old;
Adventure, war, and love have formed the woof
And warp of all the glorious stories told
By poet and prosaist, when inspired
To sing or tell the deeds their souls admired.
My song 's about a worker; one who never
Shrank from the face of toil, or ate the bread Of idleness, whose resolute endeavour
Has won the heart of Nature, who has sped His efforts with her warmth of kindliest favour, And shown the hidden key that opes, 'tis said, The wondrous treasury of celestial gold,
Prize of laborious love, that's neither bought nor sold.
Nature is rough but kindly, like the cocoa-nut;
Her hard and hemp-clad husk gives little token
Of the sweet milk within; her treasure shut
Out of the reach of idleness; the rock is broken
Before you find the gold; and you must put
With greater or less willingness her yoke on,
Ere you shall know the joy of life, and prove
The glory of its health and power and love.
'Twas a wild night in winter, such as seamen
Shorten their sail to live through; when the fire Burns with a doubled comfort, and when women
Bent o'er their work look sweetest, and the choir
Of childhood's mirth is loudest; such as gleemen
Used anciently to deem could song inspire
Of valorous doughty deed, when mighty bowls
Were filled and emptied to the Northmen's skoals.
When the first blush of early summer morn
Among the stars thrills upwards like a breath
Out of the gates of heaven; when there's born
From the spent rage of storm the calm of death;
When the fair moon repairs her silver horn,
And the soft clouds around her weave their wreath,
I love to be alone, and feel the sense
Which all these shed, a sacred influence.
But beyond all, this loneliness delights
When the drear earth in winter storms is rocking, When the chill rain comes sweeping through the nights, And the wild woods their branches interlocking,
Wrestle and groan as giants do in fights;
There comes a stillness o'er me as if mocking
The demon-driven tempest and its rout,
Turning the cloak of darkness inside out.
If there's a pleasure sweeter than another,
'Tis when bad weather shuts up human-kind,
With all its gossip, scandal, empty bother,
And leaves one free to let the roving mind
Follow its bent in some fond dream or other,
Or trim the lamp, and draw the window-blind,
And wile the hours with some well-written story
Of conquest, travel, virtue, love, or glory.
For 'tis exceeding comfortable and cosy,
To sit at night in gown and slippers warm,
And feel a sense, delicious, .dreamy, dozy,
Enwrap the weary spirit like a charm ;
The sound of raindrops makes me feel quite drowsy,'
As I sit sheltered from the winter's harm,
Lulled in an indescribable and strange delight,
By the wild music of a stormy night.
On such a night a student barred his door,
And piled fresh logs upon the blazing fire;
Then on a rough-hewn stool sat down before
His cheerful hearth, the jolly flames aspire,
And up the black, wide-throated chimney roar,
Each wandering gust but makes them leap the higher,
While round the room their ruddy glow is thrown,
And warmth and comfort in it hold their own.
A working student, this, of that strong guild
Of Nature's university who earn
Their bread by labour, and whose minds are filled
During their hours of leisure, when they learn
The mighty truths which do the ages build,
And drink in virtue from the golden urn
Of the great Past, when nations in their prime
Left splendid landmarks in the waste of Time.
Strong-limbed, broad-chested, tall, and with a fist
And forearm like a Titan's; just in-kneed a little,
As men are apt to be who fill the list
Of Nature's foremost sons, and win their victual
Out of her clenched hand; in grinding grist
The mill-stone wears, and labouring men are bit all With the keen tooth of toil, and bear the trace Of Nature's rigour in bust, limbs, or face.
A thoughtful man this worker seemed, and plain;
Too little blessed with beauty, or with grace
Of feature or of form, yet with a vein
Of mirth and humour in his homely face,
Which like the firelight in a cottage pane,
Warming with cheery glow the humble place,
Doth charm our hearts to gaze at it, and try
To gain a glimpse within as we pass by.
Philosophers who know the whims of Nature,
Affirm the dame works in a curious way,
Whene'er she forms a wise inventive creature,
Clothing the spirit in the coarsest clay;
Oft hiding genius 'neath such clumsy feature,
That one would think she'd moulded it in play, Certes, 'tis strange that Nature does take pleasure In earthen pitchers thus to hide her treasure.
As, for example, Grecian Socrates;
One of the wisest men the world has seen,
Æsop, Rabelais, Giotto, Aristophanes,
Cromwell, Turenne, Mirabeau, Racine,
Some famous women, too, may rank with these,
Mohammed's earliest wife, the Swedish queen,
One scarce can name a heroine or hero
Whose personal beauty was not down at zero.
Sappho was not at all a lovely woman,
And Cleopatra, too, was no great beauty;
Although she captive led the hook-nosed Roman
(Whom Death could not subdue, whose "et tu Brute,"
Wails in reproach through time to find a foeman
E'en in his best beloved). Nor she* whose duty
Sought its reward in her great husband's love,
A joy beyond what jewelled dames could prove.
The loveliest have not been always loved
The longest and the deepest; Nature's kind,
Full oft to those who farthest are removed
From outward charms she makes it up in mind,
Which wins and wears the longest, and has proved
Of more avail than beauty, though behind
Obsequious Wealth display his gems and gold,
Worth with the wise has borne the palm of old.
It's not the fashion which the world has got,
She judges people by the outward shell;
A man may be a rogue, or fool, or sot,
Yet if he has the art of looking well,
And hides his folly with a well-cut coat,
The world will ring his praises like a bell.
To pardon faults society is willing,
When joined with polish and the "splendid shilling."
His house was not as air-tight as a castle;
Through many a chink and cranny streamed the wind,
Which with the crazy structure seemed to wrestle,
And howled around it like an angry fiend,
Still, 'gainst the storm the tenement stood fast all,
E'en though its frame sad creaks and groans did send,
As if its joints were wrung with sudden pain,
By the fierce striving of the wind and rain.
It was a wooden cottage, roofed with bark,
And had two windows mended with brown paper, Through which there streamed out after it was dark, The glimmer of the student's midnight taper;
The cobwebbed roof and rafters rough and stark,
Were tinged a rich dark brown with smoke and vapour,
Some faded paper-hangings hid the walls,
Though somewhat tattered by the winter squalls.
'Twas furnished with a bench and an old stretcher,
A rough deal table and a three-legged stool,
For which he meant as soon as he grew richer,
To get a leathern cushion stuffed with wool;
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